The Spectator and the Muses

Acquainted #9 – Miss Ill

Her mouth was as dangerous as a loaded gun, or more like a loaded shotgun. Actually, a crossbow would be a better comparison, for she needed to speak only once to terminate her target. She had a crossbow tongue that shot bluntly, just for the sake of hurting a little more.

She enjoyed shooting people most of the time, no doubt. She could shoot and hit anywhere, anyone, anytime — even a little kid during lunchtime wasn’t safe from her aim, right from a treetop. Her caustic remarks had no limit.

That she relished blasting didn’t mean she did it entirely on purpose, though. It was more a matter of nature, of destiny. Her projectiles hit only people that were predisposed to happiness, because her call was to keep a sort of reality check. Sweetness needed a counterbalance.

“She is kind of ill.” This was the bubbly description given by a girl who got sniped by her several times. And she said it with a smile. So much sarcasm from one person could only be an illness — at least according to naive souls.

Those aware of the upbeats and downbeats of life laughed ironically at her shots rather than getting struck. She was fun. For them, the disposal of victims seemed a delightful satire courtesy of the miss that didn’t miss.

But there were times when her skill became a curse, not even an illness. Every now and then, her mouth would go off, blasting away someone really innocent without her intention. She would feel bad about it for a moment, and then have no regret. She knew that the person’s felicity would eventually deserve a missile from her, just some other day.